


Like Gold

by The_Sinking_Ship



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dirty Talk, Draco rides Harry, Happy Ending, Harry rides a motorbike, M/M, PWP, Praise Kink, Prompt Fill, but the nice kind
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-03
Updated: 2021-02-03
Packaged: 2021-03-15 07:33:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29185593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Sinking_Ship/pseuds/The_Sinking_Ship
Summary: Draco runs away from home on the back of his boyfriend’s motorbike.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 21
Kudos: 454
Collections: HP Kinkuary 2021





	Like Gold

**Author's Note:**

> Kinkuary 2021, Day 1 - Praise Kink
> 
> You know, I’ve been thinking about/talking about/writing about Harry Potter’s motorbike a lot lately. So this? This was inevitable. Throw in a little bit of the dirty talk that I so enjoy and here you go!
> 
> Thank you to [Uphorie](https://uphorie.tumblr.com/) for the beta <3

Draco shifted in his chair, a straight-backed thing upholstered in delicate silk, as beautiful as it was uncomfortable, like most everything in the Manor. Had there ever been a time he felt comfortable there? There must have, though he could hardly recall.

He crossed and recrossed his legs, read the same line of the book stretched across his lap three, four, twelve times in a row. It didn’t matter. It was only there as a distraction, something he could pretend held his attention. Something, _anything_ , to keep him from casting a Tempus and subjecting himself to the scrutiny of his father’s hawk-like glare over the top of today’s edition of the Daily Prophet. It kept him from pacing holes in the prized Persian carpet his mother purchased for the sitting room last fall in an attempt to distract herself from the fact that she and Father weren’t permitted to leave the premises for anything other than court.

Draco turned the page of his book. He checked his pocket-watch as subtly as possible, his ears straining in the anguished silence for a specific sound — the one he’d been anxiously awaiting for forty-two minutes now. It was nearly dark. He was late.

“Draco, darling, are you expecting company?” Narcissa asked mildly, though her stare was knife-point sharp.

Draco snapped his watch shut with a sniff and returned it to his pocket. There was a half-truth on the tip of his tongue, something placating about a night out with friends, a short holiday perhaps, when Lucius’ teacup smacked down into its saucer and split in two, the contents slopping over the edge to puddle atop the teak tabletop. Narcissa gasped and Draco flinched.

The corners of the Daily Prophet crumpled in Lucius’ tightening fist and Draco heard him inhale sharply. Narcissa wore a look of mild alarm as Lucius pushed from his chair to stand in front of Draco.

“Do you care to explain this?” he hissed, dropping the wrinkled paper into Draco’s lap.

Draco kept his eyes on his father as he flattened the paper across his lap with a sharp shake. He glanced down at the page, then winced, a flicker of emotion across his usually well-maintained mask. He cursed inwardly.

It was careless of him, getting caught like that, grinning and lager-drunk, arm-in-arm with Luna Lovegood, both adorned in their Muggle finest as they stumbled from the club, a pack of former schoolmates at their backs. It was unfortunate, because Draco was really quite good at avoiding the paparazzi, nearly a bloody professional. Honestly, it could have been worse. Lucius liked to turn up his nose at Draco’s wardrobe or choice of company, but the photo was almost entirely innocuous, if rather embarrassing. But by the way Lucius was blustering, he didn’t agree.

“You are a _Malfoy_ , Draco. You have a name to uphold,” he said. “You cannot be seen getting drunk in pubs with _mudbloods_ , or gallivanting around London dressed like a Muggle prostitute.”

Draco snorted, as if the streets of Muggle London were just teeming with streetwalkers dressed in eight-hundred Pound Armani shirts.

“I seem to recall you telling me to play nice,” Draco said mildly. “You wanted me to clear our name. How else did you expect me to manage it? By attacking Muggleborns in the streets?” He dipped his chin and glared at his father. “By cursing Harry Potter in plain sight?”

“I expected you to _behave_ ,” Lucius hissed. “I expected you to conduct yourself as a man of your station.”

Draco struggled to keep his eyes on his father’s stony face, to keep his eyeballs from rolling back into his skull at the utter audacity of such a statement. Lucius, who was relegated to haunt Malfoy manner until his sentence ended one year later, was told by the Wizengamot that if he _behaved,_ they would gladly wash their hands of him. Of all of them. But not before they stripped them of their titles, influence, and drained a good portion of their vaults.

“And what station is that, exactly?” Draco said, getting to his feet to stand eye-to-eye with his father. “The way I see it, _Father_ , there is nothing I could possibly do to further tarnish our name save perhaps casting a bloody Cruciatus in the centre of Diagon Alley in front of the Minister himself. Because as far as tarnishing the Malfoy name goes, you seem to have done that perfectly fine without my help.”

“ _Draco,_ ” Narcissa gasped.

Draco snapped his mouth shut as Lucius’ eyes flared. They didn’t talk about it, not ever. They didn’t talk about the Dark Lord, or the war, or what horrors transpired in that very house. They just sat there around the fire, night after night in silence, turning the pages of books or staring into space _not talking about it_ , carrying on as if the world hadn’t come crashing down around them, as if their future hadn’t been dashed to the floor.

Draco’s hands tightened into fists, but he held his tongue, if only for his mother’s sake. He almost felt bad for her. Ever the faithful wife, Narcissa accepted her sentence without complaint or any sign of remorse. She maintained her mask of Pureblood grace and elegance as their sentences were read and Lucius was spared the Kiss and all of them a lifetime in Azkaban thanks to a clever bit of word-smithing, a hearty donation to the war relief fund, and a carefully articulated list of names that incriminated a fair number of Ministry higher-ups.

The silence stretched long and thin, as it so often did. The pop of the fire in the grate and creaking moans of the old house served only to punctuate the absence of conversation, the oppressive lack of noise.

That was, until the sound of an engine sawed through the silence like a serrated blade, ragged and violent. Draco’s heart leapt.

“What,” Lucius spat, the final syllable a vicious click of his tongue. “Is that?”

“That will be my ride.”

Draco turned on his heel and strode from the room. Lucius and Narcissa were right behind him, but Draco was quicker, making his way to the front door before Lucius could block his way, before Narcissa could grasp his sleeve. It was all planned and he was prepared. He snagged the leather jacket from the coat rack, recently borrowed and still smelling of wood smoke, pine needles, earl grey, and _him._ His bag was positioned just to the right of the front door and he threw it over one arm.

“Draco,” Lucius called, gaining on him, his strides still long, even with the cane. “ _Son._ _”_

Draco hesitated with his hand on the doorknob. He gripped it until his knuckles went white, then turned. His father came to a halt with a sniff, his face twisted and angry while Narcissa hovered at his shoulder, looking grim.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

“I’d thought that would be fairly obvious. I’m leaving,” he said.

“You cannot _leave_ ,” Lucius hissed. “You are my son and you will remain here, where you belong, beside your mother and I.”

Draco took a step toward his father, the anger that constantly bubbled just beneath the surface rising quickly to the top. “The only place I _belong_ is far, far away from you.”

“You would see us disgraced, Draco?”

“We are already disgraced, Father. There is nothing left for me to ruin. I ought to thank you for that, I suppose. I’m finally free.”

“If you walk out that door, do not come back,” Lucius said.

Draco expected as much, and he smiled — a sad, resigned little thing.

“I don’t plan on it,” he said. He adjusted the bag on his shoulder, nodded to his mother, and walked out the door.

The motorbike idled at the end of the drive, gleaming in the setting sun. Its rider flipped up the dark visor of his helmet and shouted to Draco, “Are you going to make me wait all day?”

Draco grinned so wide his cheeks ached and he practically ran the rest of the way. He snagged the matching black helmet off the seat and jammed it over his head, as he’d done a hundred times before.

“You’re the one who’s nearly an hour late,” he said, but there was no venom in it.

The rider’s face was mostly obscured by the helmet, but Draco knew from the way his eyes bunched at the corners that he was smiling. Draco took his head between his palms and knocked their foreheads together, then closed the rider’s visor with a swipe of his hand, followed by his own. He threw a leg over the back of the machine and wrapped arms around the waist of the body in front of him for security, and squeezed, just because he could.

“Alright, Potter,” Draco said. “Let’s get out of here.”

The bike lurched forward.

The first time Draco rode on the back of Harry Potter’s motorbike was the first night they fucked. It wasn’t exactly part of the plan, though they'd been dancing around each other for weeks, sharing long, heated looks across the pub while their friends carried on chattering and drinking as if Draco’s entire world hadn’t just shifted beneath his feet. He thought he was bloody dreaming when Potter crowded into the pub toilets behind him one night and kissed him, rough and messy and utterly perfect. They’d stolen out the back door without saying goodbye and spent the rest of the night tangled in Potter’s sheets.

Draco thought it would stop, that Potter would come to his senses. Draco assumed he would eventually ruin it because even though he _tried_ to be nice, tried to be the sort of bloke you wanted to befriend, the type you might date, the type you could hire for a job, or perhaps the type you didn’t throw into prison to rot — but sometimes, he slipped. He still said rude things to Granger when she corrected him because it was so bloody obnoxious that any person be so condescending and so unerringly _right_ all the time. He still called Weasley the Weasel, mostly out of habit, and he still thought Lovegood might be off her bloody rocker and even sometimes said it aloud, to which Potter would frown and kick him under the table. And he definitely still baited Potter at any chance he got, even after they started fucking, even after he started calling him _Harry._

Antagonising Harry Potter was just so deeply ingrained that Draco couldn’t help but remind him that his hair was a catastrophe and his wardrobe, a disgrace. He still said those things even after Draco started staying the night and after they started spending long afternoons on the back of Harry’s bike, watching the English countryside fly by from both ground and air, the world falling away behind them.

Draco loved Harry’s motorbike because he thought that just maybe, if Harry drove fast enough, and Draco held on tight enough, no one could catch them. Like right now, as they sped down the country lane and the Manor grew smaller and smaller behind them. And maybe Harry felt the same because with a twist of the throttle, they sped up, the air barely catching beneath the tires.

The dirt lane that lined that particularly rural section of Wiltshire only went so far and came to an abrupt end at a crumbling and ivy-covered stone wall, built and long-since abandoned by whatever Muggles kept their cottage there. Draco wanted to shut his eyes because that wall was drawing closer and closer and the bike’s wheels were still bouncing along the ground. He tightened his grip around Harry’s waist but kept his eyes glued straight ahead, because if he knew anything about Harry Potter, it was that he only felt alive when his life was in danger. Draco hated that about him, even though it was the only time he felt alive too.

At the absolute last moment, when the wall loomed just meters away, Harry jerked the handlebars, and the bike shot up at a sixty-degree angle, just narrowly missing the wall and sending a spray of crumbling stone out behind them from the force of the exhaust. Draco could feel Harry laughing, felt the rumble of his body beneath his hands, and Draco cuffed him upside the head, which only made Harry laugh harder.

The air was much cooler so high up and as the Manor, and Wiltshire, and the countryside disappeared beneath the gauzy layer of clouds, Draco felt the ever present tension melt away, only to be replaced by a sort of buzzing anticipation.

There were times when Draco wanted the ride to last forever, when he never wanted to go home because it would mean returning to Father’s dark looks and Mother’s blank stares. But not this time. Never again. This time, Harry couldn’t drive fast enough, couldn’t get there soon enough. After tonight there was no going home, because Draco _was_ home. He no longer had to quell the pit of dread in his stomach at morning light when he would sneak back to the Manor and pray that Father hadn’t waited up, that Mother wouldn’t catch him tiptoeing up the staircase at dawn.

As soon as the bike’s wheels hit the pavement on Grimmauld Place and the engine cut, allowing the city sounds to fill back in around them, Draco dragged Harry off the bike. He pulled his helmet off and tossed it aside, then with a hard yank, removed Harry’s as well.

Harry shook the dark curls from his eyes and adjusted his glasses, and Draco took his stupid-beautiful face between his hand and kissed the bloody fuck out of him. Harry grunted in surprise, but responded quickly, matching the slick slide of Draco’s tongue with his own. Draco licked the smile from Harry’s lips, not caring a single bit that they were standing in the middle of a mostly Muggle street, or that they were both men, or that they could be _seen_ because it didn’t matter. None of it mattered. The only thing that mattered was kissing Harry Potter like his life depended on it.

“House,” Harry mumbled against Draco’s mouth. “Bed,” he said when Draco nipped at his full bottom lip.

Draco pulled back, just a bit, and sighed. “If you insist.”

Harry threw an arm around his shoulder and they stumbled up the stairway, Draco’s nose tucked into Harry’s neck as he dismissed his usual fortress of wards with a casual wave of his hand. They went sprawling through the front door, a tangle of limbs.

Draco wasted no time tearing the overshirt from Harry’s shoulders and shoving his hands beneath his t-shirt to feel skin. He managed to strip Harry to the waist rather quickly, even though they lost Harry’s glasses somewhere in the shuffle. But it was of no consequence. They were far more focused on toeing out of shoes, undoing flies, and tugging at zips without losing the contact between their mouths.

They didn’t bother with the lights as they stumbled down the hallway because even though Harry’s house remained perpetually dark no matter how wide Draco flung the curtains, they didn’t need light to find their way. They’d done this stumble drunk on liquor and just plain lust so many times. They knew how to do it with their eyes closed.

“Damn,” Harry said when Draco pushed him down onto the bed and crawled on top of him, naked and biting kisses into his neck and across his chest. “I wanted to keep you in my jacket.”

“What the fuck for?” Draco asked, voice muffled against Harry’s skin.

“I like you in my clothes,” Harry said casually, unaware of the way Draco’s heart clenched in response. “And you look gorgeous in nothing but leather.”

Draco’s lips stilled just beside Harry’s right nipple and he looked up at him, took in the lazy smile and half-lidded eyes. Harry winked and Draco’s stomach flipped.

“Shut up,” Draco said, shaking his head once to clear it.

Harry’s smile went wide and wolfish. “Like that, do you?”

“No,” Draco lied, and Harry knew it. Draco often went a little glassy-eyed over compliments.

It had always been a bit of a problem; in bed, out of bed, in school, at home, Draco was desperate for praise. The jolt of pure serotonin he got when he was told he’d done well was as addicting as it was embarrassing. But with Harry? With Harry it was one thousand times worse. It didn’t take long before Harry noticed the way Draco’s knees went weak when he told him he liked the smell of his cologne, or the way his eyelashes fluttered shut when Harry told him he thought his hair looked sexy long, or the way he moaned when Harry told him he’d never had anyone more beautiful in his bed than him.

Harry traced the shape of his mouth with the pad of his thumb, to which Draco parted his lips and bit the digit between his teeth, swirling around the tip with his tongue.

Draco could feel the twitch of Harry’s erection against his hip, felt the vibration of his throaty moan when he removed his thumb from Draco’s mouth to push his middle and forefinger instead, pressing against Draco’s tongue. He sucked them obscenely, luxuriated in the bewitching flush that stole across Harry’s chest and pinked his cheeks.

“Such a pretty mouth,” he said. “You know exactly what that does to me.”

Draco squeezed his eyes shut and felt the heat of a blush to match Harry’s steal across his face. He spread his knees, slotting himself over Harry’s hips, held his wrist between his hands and sucked his fingers the way Harry liked his cock sucked — sloppy, drooling, and utterly embarrassing.

A gasp slipped past Draco’s lips and around Harry’s fingers at the tilt of Harry’s hips, the slow grind of his cock against the cleft of Draco’s arse.

“You want me to fuck you, don’t you,” Harry said. It wasn’t a question, and Harry didn’t need an answer.

Though not particularly verbose in life, Harry liked to talk in bed. In fact, Harry Potter had just about the filthiest mouth Draco had ever encountered and it made Draco _wild._

“You want me to fill you up and fuck you, nice and slow, while I tell you how incredible you look spread out beneath me, how you were made to take my cock.”

Harry’s fingers slipped from Draco’s mouth and he swallowed hard, throat suddenly dry. He couldn’t speak, just dipped his chin, a minute nod. Harry chuckled and touched his thumb to Draco’s cheekbone affectionately.

“On your back, love,” he said, and Draco obeyed.

Harry started slow, too slow. He liked to take his time, liked to open Draco up with his fingers and his tongue until he was a writhing, begging mess. Sometimes it even stayed slow, sometimes they fucked lazily for hours, chasing each other to the verge of orgasm only to pull back, just before they tipped over the edge, until they were aching and sweating and finally giving in was the sweetest relief. But not usually. It didn’t take long before Harry lost himself to his lust, and Draco was beholden to Harry’s whims, especially once he started talking, started whispering words into the shell of Draco’s ear that made cock leak and his heart ache.

And Harry was already talking, already murmuring things like, “fucking incredible,” and “look at your _skin_ ,” and “I want you so bad,” between nips to the insides of Draco’s thighs while his fingers worked, deep inside the places Draco was meant to keep hidden.

He could feel Harry’s growing desperation in the way his fingers moved and the way the colour flushed his face, eyes burning. He was trying to hold back, Draco could tell. He was trying to be gentle, and Draco would have none of it. Harry always wanted to treat him like he was precious, spun from glass, but he wasn’t. He wasn’t any of the things that Harry whispered in the dark; he wasn’t beautiful, wasn’t perfect, wasn’t incredible.

Draco clamped a hand around Harry’s wrist, pulling his fingers from his body with a hiss. With another tug and a push, he sent Harry sprawling onto his back so he could crawl back on top of him, could look down his nose at him while they fucked.

“Don’t you ever shut the fuck up?” he growled as he sunk down onto Harry’s cock without warning. He watched as Harry’s eyes rolled back in his skull, his body curling toward Draco, who flattened him with the palm of his hand. He shifted his weight up, then bore down again.

“Draco, _fuck,_ _”_ Harry said, his lip clamped between his teeth.

He liked Harry beneath him. It allowed him some semblance of control, though they both knew that in the throes of pleasure, he wielded almost none whatsoever. He also quite liked the view. Because Harry was wrong; it wasn’t Draco who was beautiful; it was Harry. Draco didn’t know what Harry saw in him, with his too-long limbs, knobby knees and elbows, or the way he turned pink and splotchy wherever Harry touched him. Harry, on the other hand, was a vision of golden skin and raven curls, with a jawline sharp enough to cut, and a smile that was charmingly crooked.

Draco wanted to tell him, wanted Harry to _know_ what he did to him. But unlike Harry, Draco couldn’t find the courage to push those words past his teeth, though he thought them. He thought them bloody constantly. He could barely even look at Harry without feeling that twist his gut, his breath caught in his chest. And anyway, people lavished praise on Harry all day; he wilted beneath it. But when he bestowed it, he glowed.

“Fuck, that’s good,” Harry murmured, thumbs nestled into the juts of Draco’s hipbones, fingers spread wide, pressing fingerprints into his flesh. “You’re so good.”

Draco felt the telltale heat rise in his chest and face. He slammed his eyes shut.

“I can’t wait to fuck you into this mattress every night,” he said.

Draco gritted his teeth.

“I’m going to spread you across every surface in this whole bloody house.”

Draco bit his tongue.

“I’m going to taste every inch of your skin and mark you where everyone can see. Do you know why?”

Draco shook his head and rode Harry harder.

“Because you’re perfect, and bloody gorgeous, and _mine._ ” Harry wrapped a hand around Draco’s cock, aching and flushed, and Draco’s rhythm faltered.

Draco curled forward, buried his burning face into Harry’s shoulder as he babbled, “Shut up, shut up, _shut up._ ”

It was so fucking embarrassing. _Harry_ was so embarrassing and it was entirely his fault that Draco was falling apart at the seams, that he could barely hold his rhythm long enough to fuck him properly because he was going to come. He was going to come with Harry’s cock in his arse and praise on his lips, and it was too much.

The hand that Harry wasn’t using to work Draco’s cock was in his hair, tugging him from where he hid at the crook of Harry’s neck to bring their mouths together, where he could more easily swallow every one of Draco’s gasping moans.

“Come for me, love. Just like that,” Harry said, and Draco tasted those words as much as he heard them. “Let go. I’ve got you.”

And he did let go, let the ache that tingled at the base of his spine bloom in his abdomen until all he felt was heat as he spilt across Harry’s fingers and onto his body. Draco could hardly breathe, lost in the fog as he was. But he could hear, and he heard Harry curse brokenly, felt him tense, followed by the rush of warmth inside his body as Harry came tumbling after him.

Unable to hold himself aloft for one more second, Draco tilted, wincing at the loss of Harry’s cock in his arse, then collapsed beside him with a sigh. He reached out a blind hand, running his fingers through the cooling semen spread across the firm planes of Harry’s abdomen, evidence of himself on Harry’s skin, an imprint.

“Has anyone ever told you that you talk too much?” Draco said, his breath still unsteady, chest heaving.

Harry laughed, a throaty, growling sound. “No. Never.”

“Good,” Draco said. He felt the tingling scrape of Harry’s cleaning spell across his fingers, the flesh of his most intimate places, and he shivered. He always shivered when Harry touched him with his magic.

“Admit it,” Harry said as he curled into Draco’s side, one arm thrown over his chest and his chin tucked into the space beneath Draco’s ear. “You like the way I talk.”

“God, you’re embarrassing,” he said, pulling Harry in closer and burying his hand in his hair, tugging at his curls, wrapping them around his fingers idly.

“Why, because I tell you you’re gorgeous, and perfect, and you make my cock so bloody hard?”

“Yes,” Draco hissed.

He wanted to clamp a hand over Harry’s mouth when he said things like that. He also wanted him to never stop. He wasn’t supposed to feel this way, wasn’t supposed to desire those words, filthy beautiful and dirty sweet. He wasn’t meant to blossom beneath them, not when he’d spent so long feeling like trash, knowing his worth and finding it next to nothing. But Harry made him feel like gold, as valuable in beauty as in weight.

There was a word for the dark stares, the fluttering fingers, the desperate ache. It wasn’t a word he dared speak, a word he dared think. Not now, spread across dirty sheets with Harry’s come still leaking from his arse — in need of a shower, a second Scourgify, a strong cup of coffee or a stronger shot of liquor, preferably whisky, and preferably top-shelf. But Harry had a way of making him feel _treasured_. Because this was Harry Potter, who didn’t lie, who didn’t mince words. If Harry told him he was beautiful, was fuckable, was worthy, well, Draco was inclined to take his word for it.

“There’s something else I want to say to you, but I’m afraid you’ll leave,” Harry said, his breath hot and humid against Draco’s neck, his voice thick with exhaustion.

Draco’s hand stilled in Harry’s hair. “Oh?”

“I’ve not said it before, and I think you know what it is. But I don’t want you to run.”

“And where would I go?”

“That’s a good point,” Harry said, then yawned. “Maybe I’ll just tell you in the morning, since you’ll still be here.”

Draco licked his lips to tamp down on the smile that twitched at the corners of his mouth.

“I’ll still be here,” he said.

**Author's Note:**

> come find me on [ tumblr!](https://the-sinking-ship.tumblr.com/)


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